


the collusion of devils

by MurasakiNoAo



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Betrayal, Elemental Magic, Fighting Back, M/M, Mention of Animal Death, Mutant Politics, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sochi Grand Prix Finals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-02-22 23:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13177431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurasakiNoAo/pseuds/MurasakiNoAo
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov - 22 - loves to surprise his audience. But in the 2011 Grand Prix Final, the surprise he presents to the world is something that puts his life at risk, so he disappears off the map entirely.Four years later, Katsuki Yuuri - 23 - skates a message that is the catalyst which restarts what was left unfinished all those years ago.





	1. we could be

**Author's Note:**

> and here it is, my next.. project (we all kno how good i am at keeping those ha)
> 
> unlike my last fic, this one hasnt all been written yet, which may be my downfall, but at least im posting the prologue (which i do rather like, hence why its not sitting in some random folder in my files).
> 
> this is basically what it says in the tags, where our lovely cast have powers that are nature related (victor has plant related powers while chris as ground/earth related powers and so forth). and of course the world is freaked out by such people with strange powers, and not everything is sunshine and happiness
> 
> yuuri doesnt appear in this chapter, but the rest of the fic is planned to be in his pov. in this prologue, i basically shove a shit ton of victor headcanons into one year, then proceed to basically ruin his life
> 
> (also, lampkin is an oc of mine i quickly whipped up cause i didnt feel comfortable adding real life skaters into this story (and - disclaimer - i kno zero shit about anything french related))
> 
> now enjoy !

For the 2011 Grand Prix Final, the audience chittered, Viktor Nikiforov is the expected winner.

He’ll get his first gold in the senior division of the event, the crowds awed.

He will surpass the current leader, Michael Lampkin of Canada, the people gloated, before he retires and the chance of becoming the undisputed champion passes right before Viktor’s eyes.

And Viktor _listened_ to them. He listened because he loved surprises, and even if the whole stadium shouted his victory before he even took one step onto the ice, beating Lampkin on his home turf and taking gold would surprise the _world_.

Such a thing was what he lived for.

Quebec City was cold, but so was Saint Petersburg, so standing in the peacefulness of night with just three loose layers and a pair of gloves on wasn’t unbearable. As he took in the moment of quiet, a rare occasion that close to the first day of the Grand Prix Final, his hand found its way to his hair, silver and smooth.

He was beginning to hate it. The length of it going far past his shoulders and onto his back. The way it kept touching his neck like it was going to strangle him in his sleep. The color of it, a reminder of how many silver Grand Prix medals hung in his closet back in Russia, taunting him, telling him that his golds in the junior division were his last.

A small gust of wind blew strands of it into his face and he spluttered to get them out of his mouth.

“Are you finally going to cut it?” a familiar voice asked, the teasing note in it easing Viktor's frustration slightly.

“Thinking about it,” he responded with a flippant tone, not even bothering to turn around. “What are you doing here, Chris?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Christophe Giacometti countered, settling beside him on the railing that over viewed part of the city. “Though I doubt I’ll get a real answer from you.”

“Says the guy who won’t even answer _my_ question,” Viktor muttered, though not without a smile.

“Touche,” Chris laughed. His olive eyes flickered back to focus on Viktor with their high intensity, one he could feel nailing him down (Viktor almost sighed at the realization that this might be a longer conversation than he was hoping to get). “But, seriously, ditch the hair. It may have worked when you were a teenager, but you’re twenty two now, Viktor.” A soft sigh made visible by the chilling air exhaled slowly. “Something’s gotta change sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” Viktor whispered, mulling the words around in his head. “Something _does_ have to change.” A feeling - _determination_ \- rose up from within him, and he smirked. “And I’ll _make_ it change before this Grand Prix Final is over.”

Chris chuckled lowly. “Not before I make that change first.”

Ah, there it was. The familiar competitiveness between them surging into fruition like it hadn’t been months since they last saw each other at Worlds.

“We’ll see about that.”

They shared a look, one that had them mirroring grins, before Chris suggested getting drinks to mark the start of the competition.

(They had their own competition that night that almost had the both of them too hungover to go to morning practice, but their coaches knew them well enough not to completely scold their ears off for it.

Though Yakov did try. Oh, did he try).

 

*

 

Viktor was in first after the short program, which meant he was last in the lineup for the free skate. He remembered looking up at his score and trembling, ever so slightly, at the personal best glowing brightly. The cheers from the crowd was something that followed him to his dreams that night. And when Lampkin’s score had shown he hadn't been able to beat him, the rush of anticipation that hit him made him feel dizzy from just standing.

But he couldn't think of that right then. Chris, who had gotten third the previous day, was just about to start his free skate.

As his friend floated around the rink to get in position, Viktor couldn't hold in the “ _bon courage_!” that bursted from him. He got a response in the form of a grin, just big enough for him to see from his vantage point.

And then the music started.

Chris’ theme that year was almost of a different world from when Viktor had first met him. Back then, he had been the pinnacle of innocence, like Swiss meadows on a cool spring morning. But Chris was twenty now, with stubble starting to come in, and his theme was experimenting with something borderline sexual.

His moves were smooth and sensual. Any look Viktor would catch seemed to smolder. Many of the people in the crowd, men and women and everyone in between, screamed in arousal.

But it was far from perfect. The step sequences were a bit sloppy, affecting the overall sexiness he was trying to convey, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Chris was no longer the child of the junior division who rose in the ranks to match Viktor’s gold with silver.

Once the music ended, Chris almost collapsed on the ice, revealing to all the effort he had put into his performance. The audience was going wild, but Viktor could only afford to clap as he began to get into the mindset that would propel his own free skate.

The score came in high, ranking first out of the other skaters before Chris, cementing his place on the podium like always.

Viktor was proud.

But then it was Lampkin’s turn to skate. Viktor’s mouth twitched into a thin line as he watched the Canadian wave to his people cheering for him in the stands.

He didn’t bother watching the performance in its entirety. No good would come to him by over analyzing every move and jump Lampkin made. It would not help him leap into the victory spot on the podium, so he tuned out the classical music and practiced some of his step sequence with his ear buds in, mind going to the place it often went when he needed a distraction from the real world.

It wasn’t until Yakov shook his shoulder to tell him it was time that he came back into himself. He glanced over at the scoreboard just in time to see Lampkin’s score come in. It was high, higher than Chris’, and Viktor knew his friend would be disappointed that he was bumped down in the rankings. But the points were close, so he shouldn't count it as a full defeat.

And then it was his turn. Shrugging off his jacket and handing his skate guards to Yakov, Viktor took to the ice with a feeling of peace and determination. Deep inside of him was a voice telling him that something big was going to happen. A surprise like no other.

Settling into his starting position, Viktor Nikiforov believed that voice to mean he would win his first senior Grand Prix gold.

Unlike Chris, who was going out of his way to move forward from previous themes, Viktor felt like he was stuck in the mud, slowly working his feet out of his past, but finding it hard to move forward at all. His theme was still wrapped in the tone of the innocence and purity of a child, or at least a teenager coming to experience the hardships of the world for the first time. The music reflected that, being soft and comforting and sad that time was continuing onward when he was still trying so desperately to hang on to the good things that were passing him by.

Chris’ words echoed in his mind. “ _Something’s gotta change sooner or later_.”

He was right, and Viktor planned to prove that he was capable of it.

He landed all the jumps in the first half of his program with ease, but as he went into the second half and began the rigorous step sequence planned out, he was beginning to tire. _Not yet_ , he told himself as he prepared to go into his signature move; the quad flip.

 _I need to keep going_ , he reminded himself as he came out of his step sequence. _I have so much more to do, to accomplish._

_This is my time._

He jumped.

As soon as his feet lifted from the ice, he knew what was going to happen. He saw it as time slowed down around him, the next second stretched before him like he was fast forwarding a movie. As gravity took a hold of him once more, he would go down. His foot would land awkwardly back on the ice, giving away in a fracture of bone and possible tissue, forcing his body to follow. The angle and speed would make it so that avoiding a head injury would be next to impossible.

Viktor Nikiforov knew then that he would not get gold, that his skating career, and possibly even his life, were in jeopardy.

“ _Viktor_!” a voice cried from somewhere to his left.

He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact. His foot landed just as he predicted, and he could swear that the resounding crack of bone was heard around the world (considering that this was being broadcasted worldwide, he supposed that in a way, it was).

But then, something inside of him snapped. _No,_ it said. _This will not be the end._

The next thing he felt was not the feeling of the ice on his head, knocking his soul out of his body, but the embrace of something soft and cool.

When the expected noise of gasping and screaming at his fall did not come, he forced himself to open his eyes and see what had the entire area seemingly frozen silent.

What he saw took his own breath away.

There was dirt on the ice; that was the first thing he noticed. _Why is there dirt on the ice?_ He thought blurrily. _Did someone throw it on there?_

But the thing that was wrapped around him didn't feel like dirt at all, and when he looked down, he confirmed that indeed it was not.

_Vines?_

Green plant life was encasing his body, holding him up from the ice and the dirt that was on top of it. In fact, the vines seemed to be sprouting from the dirt, like a hundred years of growing at just occurred in under a second.

Viktor swallowed and let his gaze follow the path of dirt from him to the side of the rink. The stream of earth was like a still river, and the origins of it made this all the more confusing.

Chris was staring at him, hand extended, leaning over the boards and shaking like a leaf. But something was off about him. Blinking, Viktor felt that he couldn't quite see clearly.

Something flew by his face, like a small bug wanting to settle in his ear. He jerked back - as far back as the vines would let him go - to see why his vision was failing him at long distances.

Little flecks of light, varying shades of shimmering green, danced around him. He reached out to try and touch one, but it disappeared before he could even begin to fathom what it felt like. They would sprout from seemingly out of nowhere to float around him - _just_ around him. There were no other green specks of light anywhere else besides right there, enveloping him like a slow snowfall.

No, he was wrong. There _were_ flecks of light besides the ones around him. Another glance at Chris, flicking the intruding flecks of light out of the way so he could see clearly, revealed that similar specks floated around him, too. Except these were not the luscious green he expected, but rather rich browns.

Browns that matched the earth that looked to be strewn from his hand.

Like Viktor's greens matched the vines that embraced him.

But that was not the only thing about Chris that was new.

His hair; what once was a solid blond color now looked to be wrapped in a blanket of deep brown. His sunny blond top almost glowed with all the deep colors surrounding it.

His eyes; the olive shade was no more, instead they were dark, far darker than before. Viktor could not see the exact shade from his distance, but he could bet exactly what kind of color they showed if any of the other changes were clues.

A spark of curiosity grew in him, and he looked to where he knew the large broadcasting screen was.

His heart stuttered at the image of himself being projected for everyone to see.

Just as he feared, his hair, too, had changed. Though his signature silver remained, the tips looked to have been dipped in a turquoise dye. His eyes that once had been as blue as the ice he skated on, were deepened into a vibrant sea green, and they glowed like he was radioactive.

Combining the fact that he was still sweaty from his program and that his long, long hair had come undone from his ponytail to cover most of his face, he looked like someone raised from the cursed, dead waters of an urban myth.

He understood then why everyone was silent, why no one dared to move.

They were scared of him.

And Viktor Nikiforov was scared of himself.

It was then that the eerie silence of the audience was shattered by yelling, shouting, screaming because oh, yeah, his foot was still broken from his landing, though he felt no pain from it (yet).

But then a new cry entered the symphony of cacophonous noise.

“ _Let go of me_!”

Viktor’s head whipped back towards where Chris stood, shocked to see several security staff members trying to grapple his friend in a tight hold. Chris was struggling, spouting curse words and insults as he kicked and flailed.

Then his newly christened colored gaze locked with Viktor’s own.

“Viktor,” Chris pleaded, barely audible above all the noise, just as a few more security personnel pushed past the boards and began unsteadily shuffling over to Viktor.

To Viktor, who was still being held by many, many vines.

And when they reached him, they were going to take him, just like they were trying to take Chris.

A feeling of absolute fear struck him, making him lightheaded. He didn't know what was happening, or what was going to happen if they did manage to capture him. All he wanted, all he _really_ wanted at that moment, was to be back in his apartment in Saint Petersburg with Makkachin there to calm him into a peaceful sleep.

A new feeling grew inside of him then, one akin to the feeling he had before he began his performance, one close to how he felt as he went into the failed jump that started all of this. And although it was still a foreign feeling, he let it take over without any resistance, knowing it would, somehow, make things better.

Gaze still locked with Chris, Viktor Nikiforov disappeared in front of the whole world in a flurry of scattered flower petals.


	2. can't stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be the length of the last chapter but it got away from me n now its more than twice that aha
> 
> but anyway, heres basically the yuuri chapter n also the kickstart to the actual plot for tcod alternatively titled 'how many characters lives can i ruin in one fic'
> 
> (the answer is a lot)
> 
> and just in case it gets confusing, every time theres a break, it changes from the aftermath of the 2011 gpf n the present aka 2015 gpf
> 
> warning: around half way through there is the mention of animal death, as indicated in a new tag on this fic. im sure you can guess who that animal is n i apologize in advance (but the mention is brief n not graphic at all)

In the 2015 Grand Prix Final, no one spoke about how Katsuki Yuuri would win.

No one whispered about how he would steal the gold from under Jean-Jacques Leroy’s nose.

This was because Katsuki Yuuri had never before qualified in an international competition, and claiming first in one’s debut season was unheard of.

Yuuri knew this, had accepted that he probably wouldn’t go far as soon as the qualifiers were announced and his name was on the screen. He had set his expectations low from the beginning, and yet, somehow, he had gotten there, to Sochi, against all odds.

It had provided an unexpected opportunity that he couldn’t help but take.

His coach had not been happy.

“Changing your free skate this late?!” he had yelled for everyone in the rink to hear. “Did you hit your head when I wasn’t looking?”

_ That’s fair _ , Yuuri had thought. If he had been in Celestino’s shoes, he, too, would have believed something was wrong with his student.

But Yuuri was determined. The thought of doing this had been in his mind for a long, long time. So long, he already had most of the choreography mapped out, both in his head and on paper. The music was chosen, his jumps decided, and the step sequences so clear he could have tried them out right then and there on the ice.

All he had to do was refine it in time for Sochi.

Celestino had grumbled, and grumbled some more, until finally, he conceded. “You’re lucky you’re two qualifying events were so early to allow you enough time for this stunt. Come in for practice early tomorrow morning and give me the music, then show me what you’ve got so far.  _ But _ ,” his warning tone almost shook Yuuri’s resolve, “if I don’t like it, or if I feel that there’s too much to do before December comes, then I’m vetoing, got it?”

“Yes, coach,” Yuuri said, and he was dismissed for the day.

 

*

 

Four years ago, Yuuri had watched alongside millions as the event of a lifetime played out on his television screen. He was nineteen and halfway into his second year of college in Detroit. Finals were coming up, but he had abandoned all hope of studying that night in favor of tuning into the Grand Prix Final, held that year in Quebec City. 

Viktor Nikiforov posters shone behind him, glinting with the reflected light of the TV in front of him. 

Yuuri was enraptured. 

All those who even vaguely knew Katsuki Yuuri knew this simple fact: his idol was Viktor Nikiforov. From the moment he had seen the Russian skater floating on the ice in the junior Grand Prix Final, Yuuri had been hooked. He had decided that, someday, he would skate the same ice as that man, and join him on the podium (the hope that he was in the middle with glittering gold around his neck had been a hope that was small and impossible, but a hope nonetheless).

So he skated. Skated and skated until he was the only one of his peers who was  _ still _ skating. He would make his dream a reality, and so when he graduated high school, he didn’t hesitate to fly to Detroit under the watch of known coach Celestino Cialdini. 

But his nerves at skating in big competitions never went away, only increased as the stakes grew higher. However, he did not let this stop him, even if he stuttered and stumbled on the ice, causing his dream to fly off to the next year as, once again, he did not qualify for neither the Grand Prix nor Worlds, not even close.

So he sat in his dorm room, staring at the screen as his idol, the one he was supposed to be watching with his own eyes, took to the ice for his free skate.

And it was then that his dream, the one he was so sure he would always fulfill, crashed and burned right in front of his eyes.

 

*

 

Yuuri ended the routine with his hand outstretched to a random part of the rink, breathing labored.

Everything was quiet. The early morning sun was just beginning to shine through the windows, casting a light glow on the ice. It wouldn’t be long before the other skaters under Celestino arrived for their own morning practice.

Yuuri carefully came out of his ending position to glance at his coach’s expression. He was too far away from him to read what it said, and he wished then more than ever that he had worn his contacts.

Heart in his throat, he held his breath for the verdict.

 

*

 

As soon as Viktor lifted into his signature move - the quad flip, the jump Yuuri so desperately wished to land one day - he knew something was wrong. But what happened next all passed by in a blur, too quickly for his eyes to catch everything.

Yuuri blinked and Viktor was down on the ice.

He blinked again, realizing that, no, actually, he wasn’t. 

Something green and thin and sparkling with energy was holding Viktor up, sprouting from a sudden pool of dirt and soil, which had a trail Yuuri couldn’t quite follow with the angle the camera was shooting from. 

His breath caught as he realized.

_ Vines _ . They were vines.

Then the television suddenly cut to commercial, jarring him out of his mini trance. When they came back, there was no sign of Viktor Nikiforov, or Christophe Giacometti. Michael Lampkin stood high on the podium, gold around his neck and face split open from shock. From behind him, barely visible on the television, was the spot Viktor had landed, now vacant save for a sheet covering the ice.

And on social media, the world went into chaos.

 

*

 

Celestino sighed, audible enough for Yuuri to hear from the middle of the rink.

“Coach?” he dared to venture.

“All right,” came the concession, ringing out like another sigh.

“All… all right?”

“It’s enough.” Yuuri heard the smile in his voice. “I’ll allow it, as long as you’re the first one here and the last one out everyday, understand? We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Joy bloomed under his skin. “Yes, coach!”

His dream had been renewed.

 

*

 

After the Grand Prix Final was over,  _ where is viktor nikiforov _ was the most searched question for weeks on end. Article after article after article was written, but none of them provided answers, just more questions to pile on.

Yuuri had clung onto a video he had found. It was a fan recording, shaky and at times out of focus, but was the one that had captured the most.

It had the fall, the sudden appearance of earth where Viktor was about to land, the growth of what seemed like hundreds of vines, how they wrapped around Viktor and stopped him from his head slamming onto the ice.

It had Christophe Giacometti struggling against security, him calling out to a visibly shocked Viktor.

It had Viktor disappearing in a cloud of flower petals.

And it had Chris being escorted out, still and shocked as both his arms were held firmly against his back.

If one paused the video at certain points, it would reveal the physical changes both skaters had undergone in that short time span. 

Yuuri often found himself pausing at the moment Viktor turned to look at himself at the big screen above him. His hair, tinted with turquoise at the tips, and his glowing eyes, round with shock and fear, vines still wrapped around his shoulders. Yuuri had screenshotted it, saved it in the folder on his phone that contained all the other pictures of the skater he had saved over the years.

The image haunted him in his dreams, calling out to him, asking to save him.

He often awoke in a sweat, the fading image of Viktor exploding into petals on his eyelids with a scream ringing in his ears.

It was then that he had started coming up with the routine, escaping to a secluded rink in a park while everything was still sleeping to come up with spins and jumps and twirls. He worked on it for those four years, but never said a word about it to anyone.

Until the perfect chance came up, and he grabbed it with two white knuckled hands.

 

*

 

“You’re changing you’re free skate program?!”

Yuuri winced at his roommate’s loud volume. “Yeah, Celestino gave it the green light today.”

“But the Grand Prix Final is so close!” Phichit Chulanont exclaimed, hugging one of his hamsters close to his chest as his mouth drooped in shock. 

“Which is why I’m telling you that I won’t be around here as much because there’s so much work to do.” He paused in putting water into his instant ramen (he had been too tired to make anything more) before giving a stern glare in Phichit’s direction. “And don’t be blabbing about this on social media. I want to keep as much of it a secret as I can before the Final comes up.”

Phichit raised an eyebrow, adjusting his hold to let the hamster roam more freely in his grasp. “Oh? It’s a  _ secret _ program, is it?”

“Yes, so  _ don’t _ tell anyone-  _ hey _ !” Yuuri pointed an accusing finger at Phichit, who had just unlocked his phone. 

“What?” Phichit asked innocently, batting his eyelashes. “I’m only checking my feed. Can I not do that at least?”

Yuuri lowered his hand, eye twitching at his friend’s usual teasing. About to drop it and go back to his ramen, the sudden shift of Phichit’s expression into a somber one stopped him. 

Before he could ask, Phichit was already answering, “it’s been almost four years since then, huh?”

He didn’t need to specify what ‘then’ was.

“Does the reason why you’re changing programs now have anything to do with this?” Phichit glanced at him cautiously, knowing how sensitive Yuuri always was around the topic.

His silence as he put his ramen cup in the microwave was enough of an answer.

 

*

 

The second most asked question after Quebec City was  _ where is christophe giacometti _ . 

Chris had not been seen since he was dragged away from the ice and the podium that day, and no one seemed to know anything about where he was, or why he had been presumably put under arrest. People were calling and calling for answers; if no one knew where Viktor was, then they had to at least know where Chris was being held, or if he was safe back at his home in Switzerland. 

Yuuri had known Chris, before it happened. 

They weren’t overly friendly with another (although Chris did try many times to get closer), but they had often times stood next to each other on the junior’s podium, cameras flashing on Yuuri’s silver and Chris’ gold. He could never beat the older skater, which always put a damper on his hopes of one day getting close enough to stand next to Viktor, who had already been in the senior division for a couple years by the time Yuuri had joined the other juniors.

But he had  _ known _ Chris, talked to him if only briefly because of his social awkwardness around new people. Chris had always been supportive, congratulating him on his silvers and the occasional bronze. He would give a word of good luck if Yuuri passed him by to start his skate, and invite him to dinners even though he always politely refused.

And Yuuri had  _ talked _ to Chris, if only to send his good wishes to him before the Final. In return, he had gotten a teasing text about his ‘crush’ on Viktor, which was something Chris loved to snigger about if only to get a reaction out of him. 

In an attempt to be petty, he hadn’t responded.

(He wished he had).

So it was for these reasons that Chris’ disappearance had a more personal impact on Yuuri those following days.

He had tried texting him, but he got no answer. He tried sending him a message through Instagram, but his account had been deleted. In a frantic, last ditch effort, he called him, again and again, fear in his throat when the answering machine told him the number wasn’t in use anymore.

Even Chris’ coach had faded from the public eye, though it was of his own accord to do so; it seemed like a perfect answer to avoiding questions he didn’t know, Josef Karpisek had said in his last interview, speaking of his retirement as a coach. It helped that, since Chris’ disappearance, he had no more skaters to oversee.

So the world was left with questions upon questions upon questions. Everyone who could have the answers kept their mouths sealed shut with thick tape that read  _ classified _ , and it frustrated the public to no end.

And while the world was pressing and pressing, Yuuri was quiet, mourning the loss of an almost friend, an idol too enimagic to keep, and a dream filled with childlike hope.

 

*

 

The Grand Prix Final arrived quickly, and before Yuuri knew it, he was in Russia, the motherland of Viktor Nikiforov.

But there was no time to drool over this fact. He had only one more day until the short program, so he forced himself to focus on the allotted practice time Celestino gave him, refusing to give into Phichit’s texts begging for tourist pictures because he couldn’t convince Celestino to pay for his tickets and hotel room. 

“I’m so poor and lonely, Yuuri!” he had whined, covered in hamsters, as Yuuri had packed his clothes the night before his flight out. “At least send me lots and lots of pictures so I don’t collapse from the stress of finals without my best friend around!”

Yuuri had smirked at the dramatic wailing. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got your hamsters; they’ll keep you from pulling all your hair out while I’m gone.”

This only granted him the accusation of being cold and heartless of his friend’s plight, but in reality, he was glad for the distraction. 

(If he thought about what lay ahead of him too much - the short program, but most importantly his free skate, which he had perfected and then perfected again to best shape what he wished it to be when he did go out and face the world - his hands would start to shake and suddenly hiding out in his own secluded room wouldn’t feel as much as a bad idea).

But he pushed past all the feelings he had that were gnawing at his nerves and practiced and practiced until Celestino was forcing him to go to his room and get a good night’s rest. And when the next day - the short program day - came along, he went into morning practice with a drive to skate out the remaining nerves he had. He practiced and practiced, feeling as though the world was sharpening down to just one thing.

He blinked and suddenly, it was time.

His short program wasn’t perfect. He fell on a couple of his jumps, and this messed up his flow of the following step sequences, but when he finally stopped, he let himself drink in the resounding applause for just a moment before floating off the ice and letting his mental lecture take hold. When Celestino handed his skate guards to him, his coach couldn’t help but give his shoulder that proud squeeze because after everything, he was  _ there _ , at the Grand Prix Final, and shouldn’t that count for something?

Yuuri had been the first skater out there, but he didn’t pay attention to the others, too wrapped up in his state of oblivion, until Jean-Jacques Leroy finished and the official standings of the day were announced.

_ Fourth _ .

He was in fourth place at the moment, and while the disappointment of not being in the top three was still there, his pride at not being at the very bottom brought him up to cloud nine.

It wasn’t until late that night, when a call from a sister he hadn’t seen in five years woke him, that he came crashing down back to the harsh reality of Earth.

 

*

 

Yuuri remembered wondering what would become of Makkachin, Viktor’s beloved poodle, now that her owner was had vanished from the world. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one wondering. A quick search revealed that  _ where is makkachin  _ was, if not the third most asked question, then of the top ten asked. 

At least this question had an answer, even if it piled more questions onto the whole mess of things.

Reports indicated that upon ‘review’ (a term - Yuuri was sure - that was sugarcoating the upheaval of Viktor’s apartment that had actually happened) of Viktor’s former living space concluded that the dog was not there and none of the neighbors had an idea of where she might be, nor had they heard any indication that Viktor had gone inside since the Grand Prix Finals had ended.

The common consensus was that Viktor had obviously whisked his dear Makkachin away with him rather than let her be taken away to be put in another home or something worse.

Yuuri rather liked that idea, since he would do the same with his Vicchan if he were in a similar predicament. 

And, of course, this had Yuuri thinking about Vicchan, the toy poodle he had gotten shortly after Viktor had adopted Makkachin. He had even gone as far as naming the pup after his idol, though his parents couldn’t quite wrap their tongue easily around the name, and so toy poodle Viktor became instead toy poodle Vicchan.

He hadn’t seen Vicchan, nor any of his family members, since he had left for Detroit a little more than a year ago.

He had thought, at the time, that just a year wasn’t that long, that even though he missed Hasetsu and the inn and the hot springs and his family and his dog, waiting just a little bit longer, just until school and training had settled down a bit, wouldn’t hurt anybody. Even if he couldn’t see Vicchan in real life, he still saw him during video calls and photos his sister would occasionally send him.

So he had wrapped his homesickness up in a carefully held together package, and stuffed it into the back of his mind before he let it affect his mood too much.

(Years later, as he sat on a hotel bed in Sochi, Mari’s sorrow filled words leaving him frozen cold, he would come to regret not reopening that package sooner).

 

*

 

Perhaps if Yuuri hadn’t been waiting for this moment for half his life, he would have had a breakdown, would have unraveled all the hard work he had done over the past couple of months, over the past couple of years. Maybe if his free skate wasn’t meant to be a message that needed to be said then and there, he would have not said it at all due to the pain of fresh loss.

But he  _ had _ been waiting for this for half his life. He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he woke up without sore muscles because of this free skate. And it  _ was _ a message, a message he so desperately needed to skate, and  _ this _ was the only moment he could think of that would make sense.

So, instead of letting the thoughts of his poor, poor dog, who had been waiting, oh, so patiently for him to return, being dead and gone to the world overwhelm him enough to distract, he stood and left his hotel room.

(It was times like these that he wished he was back in Hasetsu and had a key to the Ice Castle so he could skate to his heart’s content whenever he was feeling like-)

No, he had to focus. Leave all thoughts of Ice Castles and Hasetsu and home out of his mind. Maybe if he looked desperate enough, he would be let into the Iceberg Skating Palace so he could  _ do something _ besides be left alone with everything in his head.

He was almost to the elevator when he heard the sound of a door behind him opening, followed closely by a bewildered, “Yuuri?”

Freezing in his tracks, he cursed himself for not being quieter, faster; he hadn’t wanted Celestino to know about this, not yet. But he had been caught, so all he could do was turn and hope his minute shaking didn’t get noticed.

“What are you doing up this late, Yuuri?” Celestino asked, disapproval leaking into his voice. “You just skated an intense program, and you’ve got practice tomorrow.”

“I-I know,” he tried to say, wincing at the stutter. “I just… have a l-lot on my mind, so I… thought-”

“You thought skating for a just a little bit now would help calm you down,” Celestino finished for him, always the one to know his habits, however destructive they may be. “I understand, but, Yuuri,” he was using that placating tone he often put on whenever one of his students tried something he found distasteful, “you can skate all you want during practice tomorrow. For now, you should just go back to your room and-”

“ _ Please _ ,” Yuuri croaked, hating just how  _ pathetic _ he sounded. “I can’t sleep, not now.”

Celestino looked at him, appraising the way he held himself, how with each passing moment, the shaking of his hands got worse until it was all he could do to hold them close to his chest. Eventually, his coach sighed. “All right, Yuuri.” His voice was soft. “Let me go get dressed and grab my badge, and then we’ll go to the rink.”

Yuuri felt like he could cry with relief, “thank you, coach-”

“But you’ll stop skating and get some rest when I say so. I will not risk you getting injured when you still have your free skate to perform on Saturday.” Celestino smiled at him. “We both know how much work you’ve put into it. Shame to see that all go to waste.”

“Yes, coach.”

As they walked to the rink, Yuuri was deeply thankful he didn’t ask him why he needed this, why now, or what had happened. He ended up skating for most of the night, losing track of time as he banished all thought from his mind. Celestino only called it when he started to flub his triples, and by then a sense of peace had come over him. And as they headed back to the hotel, still, Celestino didn’t ask him.

Yuuri fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow, bringing him a satisfyingly dreamless rest.

(He slept through morning practice, as well as the official practice later that day, but Celestino didn’t bother to disturb him.

He didn’t need the extra practice anyway; Celestino knew he was ready).

 

*

 

It had been four years since Viktor Nikiforov disappeared and still, no one knew where he was.

Occasionally, there would be the rare sighting; someone claiming to have seen a flash of silver hair in a crowd, before it was gone, or some faked videos, like it was some kind of cryptid hunt, just to get the publicity, though they were always quick to be called out. There was even the rare accusation that someone had been attacked by Viktor, but Yuuri never believed those stories for a second.

Eventually, interest began to drop. After two years, the fake reports stopped altogether. The world moved on from an old figure skating legend and latched onto more recent anomalies. Everyone figured Viktor was long, long gone, or had already been captured, or was perhaps even dead in some remote location.

Everyone, except for Yuuri.

Yuuri believed that Viktor was still out there, watching the world from whatever hideout he had made for himself. There was no way, in his mind, that Viktor would ever give up or give in. 

And his free skate was a message to  _ him _ , a message that said,

“I know you’re there. Even if the world has given up on you, I still believe.”

 

*

 

The feeling of peace followed Yuuri all throughout the day of the free skate. He let it settle in his bones as he went through the warm up practice, and kept it close as the first two skaters who had scored lower than him two days before went out to perform. It kept the anxiety at bay, and both he and Celestino knew that was what he needed to do as he waited these last few minutes.

_ Keep calm. Breath in deep.  _

_ Focus on your goal ahead. _

And with one last mental squeeze on that stillness, he let it go just as his blades hit the ice. 

No matter how much panic and fear might seep into his performance, he needed to  _ feel _ as he skated, or else the message would be lost in a clashing serene smile.

So as he settled into his starting position, he relished in the loud beating of his heart, and the sweat beginning to form on his forehead. And underneath all that, was the feeling that  _ something _ was going to happen because of this, something important,  _ life changing _ . It brought along enough courage for him to think, if only briefly,  _ I’m going to win _ .

Then the music started, and he was off.

 

*

 

There is a certain amount of time that can pass before there must be answers.

Three years after the incident at the 2011 Grand Prix Final, during the Winter Olympics no less, there was an accident during the ski halfpipe event. One of the participants made a miscalculation that resulted in a fall and looked to be landing on their head. However, just a split second after the misstep, a large gust of wind blew up underneath them, cushioning their fall. Immediately after, the skier was taken into custody as the sports channels quickly all went to commercial.

It was a strange sense of deja vu for Yuuri and everyone else who had seen the Grand Prix Final years prior. This time, however, it was recorded on live television for an audience bigger than the Grand Prix ever could get, so the world refused to let their questions go so easily ignored. 

And once the Olympics were over, they finally got what they wanted.

_ Elementals _ , the collective high powered governments called them, people who could manifest an aspect of nature in time of deep distress or, apparently, extreme emotional situations. The high ranking leaders of the world had all united to provide research on these ‘subjects’, and they were quickly deemed a public safety threat.

“Where are the ‘Elementals’ that you have taken into custody? Are they in a secured facility? Are they the ones you have experimented on? How many are there that you are aware of? Are there more ‘Elementals’ who are currently missing like Viktor Nikiforov?” and on and on and on went the questions amassed for the first debriefing of the matter.

Yet the officials would only say, “the Elementals that we have brought in are all under keen supervision. They are safe and we have made sure they will not be putting anyone in danger with their unnatural abilities. We thank you for your patience in this matter.” And then the debriefing was over with the promise that more information would be provided in time.

As they waited again for more answers, more details, rumors began to sprout, whispering things that made Yuuri’s blood turn cold. It would have been easier to brush them off if he hadn’t  _ known _ Christophe Giacometti, but he had, and so at night the rumors would seep into his dreams and turn them into nightmares. 

Phichit had been his roommate back then, too, and during those nights, he had become the solid rock Yuuri turned to when his breathing was too harsh and too fast for sleeping.

_ Elementals _ , he would think as Phichit rocked him gently.  _ Chris is an Elemental. They took him away because he made earth with his bare hands. Viktor Nikiforov is an Elemental. He ran because they were going to take him in for the vines and the plants and the flowers that saved his body. _

_ How many more? _ he wondered as his mind listed between awake and rest.  _ How many more were taken? How many more are hiding? _

_ Why do they have to be taken? Why must they hide? _

The image of Viktor, turquoise shadowed hair fanning his face and deep sea green eyes radiating poignant fear, appeared behind his eyelids, just as sleep took its hold.

_ They are beautiful, and they don’t deserve this. _

 

*

 

Katsuki Yuuri stood in the middle of the rink, arm extended and vision blurry with unshed tears, as the music faded into nothing. The only sounds he could hear were his harsh breathing and the thoughts of  _ failure, failure, failure. _

It didn’t matter that he had blanked out for almost the whole program. All that he could think of was his last jump, the most important one, meaning and points wise.

The quad flip, Viktor Nikiforov’s signature move.

His blade had slid on the ice. His hand had come down to steady himself. 

He botched it  _ and _ his message. 

That was why no one was making any sound in the crowd. No cheers, no applause, because after all his hard work, he had flubbed the one jump he had forced himself to master.

Now all he could do was wonder when people would start booing him off the rink, and why the hell did he feel so damn hot like his skin was on-

_ Oh. _

Yuuri blinked away the tears in his eyes to stare, mouth agape, at his fingertips.

His fingertips that were  _ on fire _ .

The first instinct he had was to shake his hand free from the danger, but by doing so, he felt one of his blades slip on the ice (which was  _ wet  _ and  _ slick _ ), bringing him down hard on his knees. But even as he kept shaking his hands, the fire would not go out. Trembling, he slammed the digits onto the cold ice, yet that only caused the melting to quicken. 

Heartbeat in his ears, Yuuri looked up, as if the answer to what was going on was laid out in front of him. 

Instead of printed words, he found hundreds of red, orange, and yellow specks floating all around him on the rink. They flickered like candlelight and made it hard to look at one individual for long before straining one’s eyes.

He figured that was enough of an answer.

Noise was starting to come back to him then, but it wasn’t like a loud sudden crack of shouting. Instead, it increased from whispers to mutters to exclamations and then finally to screaming and yelling as realization dawned. Yuuri could see people trying to get away (from  _ him _ ) in the stands, not going very far with how frantic everyone was. 

“Yuuri!” 

He whipped his head around to spot Celestino leaning over the boards, looking like he desperately needed to tell him something. But before he could, someone circled an arm around his chest to hold him back. Yuuri watched as his coach tried to struggle against the hold, but only succeeded in getting him another person (he assumed they were security personnel) to help keep him contained. However, just as the man was being tugged away, Celestino managed to throw the word he had wanted to say at Yuuri.

“Run!”

Panic sung in his veins as Yuuri looked towards the exit and found it blocked off by the same people in uniform. The more he looked, the more security he saw. Almost all the possible exits he could make were blocked off and even if did he somehow managed to jump the boards, his skates would drag him down enough to be caught.

But none of that mattered. Because even if there was a way to escape, Yuuri couldn’t even get up to try it.

Because despite his fingers still burning, he was frozen in place.

Just as his mind was teetering on the edge of a full blown panic attack, Yuuri suddenly felt something cool and firm wrap under his arm and around his chest. It tugged, and as he was lifted to his unsteady feet, he came to realize that it was an arm. But before he could be terror-stricken at the thought of being captured, a strong scent of both roses and lavender drifted into his senses, and he calmed immediately. 

He allowed himself to be pulled against a body, using it for balance. Blurrily, he noticed that the air was now filled with different shades of green flecks rather than just the flame colored ones. In fact, the greens dominated in quantity as the reds and oranges and yellows slowly began to fade. 

“This might feel strange,” a voice whispered into his ear as the grip on his chest tightened slightly. 

It was all the warning he got before the rink disappeared below his feet, and he was somewhere else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill give ya one chance to guess who the mystery person is
> 
> i based the schedule of the sochi grand prix final on the real official 2015 isu schedule which you can find w a quick google search since im too tired to link it here. basically the short program for mens singles was on thursday n the free skate was on saturday so they had a days rest between them
> 
> n if you wanted to know which skaters were in the 2015 gpf, here they are in order of their score after the short program:
> 
> jj  
> cao bin  
> mickey  
> yuuri  
> georgi  
> otabek
> 
> (will these five skaters show up later in the fic n be relevant ? 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )

**Author's Note:**

> as always: kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, and shares are very much appreciated
> 
> check out my tumblr @prettyboyvoid


End file.
